My Brush With Death

by Eman

I can truthfully say that I am a woman who has known death and felt the cold touch of Izrael. It all started when I was watching TV and remembered I had a bottle of Fanta in the fridge, and my heartbeat quickened in earnest. Upon finding the bottle I realized that opening it with my bare hands is impossible without getting my palms torn to shreds, so I looked through the cupboards for a bottle opener. Now, the problem is that I don’t know what a bottle opener looks like. I know there’s a pointy end and maybe a hole somewhere in the contraption, maybe a spinning wheel – I don’t know the last time I can recall seeing one was in my great-grandmother’s house back in 1999. I found what I thought was a rusty bottle opener (but later turned out to be a rusty can opener) behind a set of dishes and went to work at that tantalizing bottle of Fanta. I spent upwards of fifteen minutes hacking at that bottle while the orange nectar inside winked and danced seductively, arousing my parched taste buds. I sustained two injuries, a minor cut on my palm and the cut on my finger which is currently causing my slow, painful death. It’s a small cut, only a drop of blood oozed out of the damaged skin on my right forefinger, such an innocent thing. But it only takes one small cut for the C. tetani (tetanus) bacteria to crawl into my unsullied body and begin defiling it with its wicked spores. I can feel the bacteria as I type this, hanging on to the torn edges of my skin for dear life, ejaculating their bacteria babies into my open wound and laughing maniacally as my white blood cells bravely fight a losing battle. They’re tearing up my body right now, they are raping my nervous system and verbally abusing my kidneys. I can feel my body weakening, every breath is becoming harder, memories of a dark park in Alexandria are swimming across my eyes, my fingers are twitching, my toes are cold. The end is nigh.

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